


Temporal Somnambulism

by Juliette1713



Category: Northern Exposure
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15584715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliette1713/pseuds/Juliette1713
Summary: The alter ego of my other story, Sleepwalking Through Time.   What if it were Joel who woke up in a reality he didn't recognize...  Also set sometime in early to mid season 3.





	Temporal Somnambulism

Joel laid in bed, stunned. He searched for the right words to best capture his current thoughts, but after awhile gave up in favor of, "Wow."

Maggie giggled - giggled! - into the crook of his neck and murmured happily, "Mmmm, that was pretty 'wow'." He'd never known her to giggle and certainly not around him. Too easy to be seen as flighty, superficial, girly - everything Maggie was opposed to having as personal attributes. 

"I mean, O'Connell, that was...wow."

An agreeing "mmmm," was her only response. That and a kiss to his throat. Real conversationalists they were this morning.

As Joel focused on catching his breath and bringing his heart rate back to something resembling a resting one, his mind became more active. He and O'Connell had finally had sex?! And it had been...well, wow still summed it up pretty well. But he still didn't understand how or why he'd woken up in her bed, let alone been so fortunate as to not have his presence anger her enough to injure him permanently. Or at all. But for her to roll over, see him, smile, say she wanted him, and then follow through with it?! He hadn't even had the time or the wherewithal to try to stop her, not that he'd wanted to. He'd been certain, at first, that it was a dream, but the longer things went on, the more he acquiesced to the reality of it all. Acquiesced but never understood. 

He went back through each memory from earlier, trying to figure out what had gone right - for once - with her and scrape together any clues he could as to how, when, and why he came to wake up in Maggie O'Connell's bed this morning. 

He'd had a very average Joel-Fleischman-living-in-Cicely night last night. He'd heated up a frozen tv dinner, ate the first half of so quickly it had burned his mouth, and picked at the second half once both it and his hunger had cooled enough to reveal it for the less-than-appetizing meal it really was. It was dark when he'd left work, and he'd still not adjusted to these short days, so when he felt tired at 9, he had no qualms about getting in bed with the New England Journal of Medicine and plans for imminent sleep. Well, not "no qualms"; maybe a few qualms. But far fewer than he'd have had a year and a half ago, when he'd first arrived. 

The rage that came with comparing what his life should be with what it actually was had subsided a lot as time had passed. Some of it was Elaine ending things - nothing slammed the door harder on what his life was going to be than losing the other half of it. But some of it, he'd grudgingly admit in the privacy of his own mind, had been accepting the community Cicely had to offer. Upwardly mobile urban living it was not, but he had what he'd reluctantly call friends now. And he had O'Connell to spar with. Talk to. Flirt with. Feed him meals on nights that felt unsettlingly like dates sometimes. Twice last week, she'd made him dinner. Once at her place, once at his. He preferred hers, of course. It was a homier atmosphere than his cabin for one, but it also gave him the luxury of her having to be the one to end their evening. He didn't have to guess when his welcome had worn out. By contrast, nights at his place were sheer torture as the minutes ticked past what should rationally, reasonably, chronologically be the end of the night. 12:15 am on a weekday night was not a social hour by any measure, so when their nights lingered past polite visiting hours, he felt pressure. Pressure to tell her to go, or worse, pressure to risk telling her he wanted her to stay. Which is what he really wanted. She never made a move to leave on her own, never took the bait when he'd float conversational exit opportunities like mentioning the late hour or asking if she had an early charter. At her place, she was candid with him. It wasn't always early, but she always told him directly when it was time for him to go. He waited for her same candor at his place and it never came. Which caused his mind to wonder sometimes...was she waiting there for something else?

Regardless, there'd been no one waiting last night. Joel had laid down, gotten halfway through a boring endocrinology article about testing free T3 counts, and given up for the night, resting his glasses on his nightstand atop the unfinished journal. He certainly hadn't fallen asleep in the way in which he'd awoken, his chest against Maggie's back, his knee between her legs, his arm draped over her, and his face in her hair. 

For one thing, the Maggie he knew had short hair. He knew that quite well because it featured regularly in a rotating series of fantasies he'd had in which, at least at some point, he'd run his fingers through it, feeling the soft, short baby-fine hairs on the back of her neck. The Maggie he woke up next to had hair that shrouded the tops of her shoulders. Hair he'd had to sweep aside to kiss her there. It suited her, longer hair. She was, of course, incredibly beautiful, so it shouldn't have surprised him that a different hairstyle would flatter her just as well. Maggie's short hair was so much of her persona, though, that he could hardly help but notice the change.

Not to mention the change of waking up in her bed and having sex with her! His mind quickly reminded him that that had been decidedly different as well. While he was cataloging differences, that was worth another mention. 

"You're quiet this morning, Fleischman. Not that I'm complaining. It's just that, after about 30 seconds of silence from you, it starts to makes me wonder if you've sustained a head injury. You didn't, did you? I don't think things got that out of control... Mmmm, but that...that was nice though. Really nice, actually. That was like... you remember that time you had to go cover that flu outbreak in Sleetmute for two weeks?"

She was babbling what sounded like nonsense to his confused brain. "What?" he asked, just to penetrate the flow of words that made no sense to him, contribute to the conversation. 

"Nothing, nothing. It just seemed like you hadn't seen me in a long time, that's all. Was different. Unexpected. Hey," she kissed his neck and he closed his eyes against the sensation. He only half-hoped she wasn't starting something again. "I'm going to get up. Shower. Can you start some coffee?"

See? Direct. It was time for him to go. She wanted him to make her coffee on his way out, too? Well, he supposed it was the least he could do.

"I guess. In the kitchen?"

"Yes, in the kitchen! Where do you think you'd do it otherwise? The bathtub?" Her voice was exasperated in a reassuringly familiar way. The normalcy of having her talk to him like he was an idiot, though, quickly evaporated as she began to run her toes up and down his calf muscle, their legs still entwined, and her put her lips back on his throat.

"Okay, okay. Coffee. I can do that."

In response, she swung her leg over his, straddling him on top of the sheet. She leaned down and kissed him, on his lips this time - a slow and lingering kiss. Her fingers came to his hair, twirling his locks gently as she ended the kiss. She rolled over again, pulling her other leg over him to get out of bed. "Love you, Fleischman," she added casually, on her way through the bathroom door. 

His eyes flew open, looking at her ceiling in shock. This was intensifying quickly. Loved him? He'd never in a million years have pegged O'Connell as one of those women - having sex once and falling immediately and needingly into the trappings of a highly committed relationship. 

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. What the hell should he do next? Coffee, he figured was the only thing he knew that she said she'd wanted. He heard the shower turn on, so he scanned her room for his clothes. They were close at hand, he knew, since it hadn't been terribly long ago that they'd been flung out of bed. Before they'd started up, he'd been dressed in a t-shirt and boxers. He'd find those and then be dressed enough to search for the rest of his clothes, make her coffee, and slip out.

He stood and found his boxers lying on the floor with the shirt she'd been wearing. He put his underwear on and searched the floor for more clothing. Stepping over her panties - the ones he'd not long ago peeled off her with his teeth - he made his way gingerly around her bedroom. Not only did he find his t-shirt on the ground, but he found a neatly pressed dress shirt and pair of pants hanging from hangers on the back of her bedroom door. That was...hospitable of her. Bizarrely. When had she pressed his clothes from last night? Hell, he didn't even recognize this shirt, come to think of it, but it had been ironed. It was his style, his taste, even his size, but not his. Deprioritizing the urgency of finding the shirt's origin, he put both it and the pants on and went into the kitchen. 

He frantically opened and closed cabinets, trying to find her coffee mugs. He could have sworn they were in the cabinet second from the right, but it was filled with plates. Assuming she'd reorganized again, he methodically began opening doors one by one until he found them. He quickly started the coffee and scanned her living room while it was brewing. Had he not been in such a panicked hurry, he might have noticed the mug he'd set out for her was his favorite MOMA mug. As it was, he hadn't, and he roamed the living room, searching for his shoes. 

He found them by the door, next to hers, under his coat hanging on the hook. He hurriedly put them on, without socks, and reentered the kitchen to finish her coffee. He poured it into the mug, still too addled to notice it was his, and started back toward the bedroom with it. He stopped halfway there, unsure of whether that was the right thing to do here. She seemed to be kicking him out for the morning, so maybe he should just leave it on the kitchen counter. But should he really leave without talking to her about what had happened? It seemed like they'd need to talk, but if she'd wanted to, surely she wouldn't have fled for the shower so quickly and hinted that he should leave.

Resolving to split the difference, he decided to leave her coffee on the coffee table in the living room with a note. This way he wasn't sneaking out without comment. She could come talk to him when she was ready, and he'd have time to get his bearings and think everything through. And hopefully remember what the hell happened last night to trigger all of this - how and when he'd even gotten there. Had they had sex the night before too? Surely, their first time hadn't been the morning after spending the night. She hadn't acted like it was their first time either. Why couldn't he remember? Why was his only memory of last night going to bed alone in his bedroom? Maybe he should have asked clarifying questions before diving right into sex... 

He shook his head to clear it. One step at a time. He needed to find a piece of paper to leave her a note, and then, God help him, figure out what the hell to write on it. Paper. He focused himself. Her desk. He walked toward it only to find she'd also rearranged her living room, too, and it was now a bookshelf. He turned around and scanned the room. The desk was back near the kitchen now. He walked to it, noticing the framed photo above it. How had he never noticed this before? It was a beautiful black and white shot of the Chrysler building, its metal top gleaming against a dark and tempestuous sky. The Chrysler building was his favorite of the New York skyline - its tapering art deco spire so different, so unique from the other buildings defining the shape of the city. It was so odd that O'Connell would have a print of it, matted, framed, and on display above her desk, no less. She didn't even like New York.

Concentrating on the task at hand, he rummaged around, trying to find a blank sheet of paper and something to write with. An air vector map lay across the desk - he couldn't write on that. He started to fold it up, careful not to crumple it, so he could continue searching beneath it. As he folded it over itself, he noticed her handwritten information at the top. It had caught his eye because, there, next to her license number and the date, she'd written 'M. O'Connell-Fleischman'. He went hot and cold. That was unaccountably strange behavior, even for her. Was she writing her name with his? On her flight map? Like a preteen girl, daydreaming about marrying her crush someday, doodling their names together? And of course Maggie'd hyphenate in a daydream. Her 'love you' echoed in his mind. Was she actually crazy? Had sex with him sent her over the edge? 

It was all the more urgent he get the hell out of there and get his thoughts straight before dealing with her again. He heard the shower turn off. Where was some damn paper?

He finally found a stack of blank 3x5 notecards and grabbed one, giving himself a paper cut in the process. He used the pencil that had been on her flight plan to scrawl, after a panicked 30 seconds of nothing coming to his mind, 'Maggie - Thanks for last night and this morning. It was wonderful. See you soon. -Joel.' It seemed the right time and place for first names. Poetry it was not, but it was polite, complementary, noncommittal, and good enough for now. Surely she'd find him when she was ready to talk. Given her sentiment earlier, he considered 'Dear Maggie' and 'Love, Joel,' but decided not to chance it.

He tucked the note underneath the mug on her coffee table where his keys were fortuitously laying. Sucking on his finger to quell his bleeding, he grabbed the keys and his parka from the hook, and left, shutting the door behind him quietly. He trotted to his truck, parked next to hers, climbed in, and started towards town. 

What the hell had happened back there anyway? He felt a twinge of guilt for quite literally running away from the situation, but he reasoned that she'd run, too, just into the shower.

So they'd finally had sex. At least that he was sure of. And it had been incredible. Not that he had cause to be surprised - the tension between them was so obvious, so palpable, he was surprised sometimes that it didn't exist as a visible entity all its own. He'd known, since that kiss at the Brick, that whenever it finally happened, they'd have to peel each other off the ceiling at the end. But that they'd finally managed to go through with it was surprising, given the dance they'd been doing to avoid it. On those nights where they'd have dinner, even though it frequently felt familiar, flirtatious, cozy - even if they both had a good amount of wine in them - they'd always managed to keep a wall up between them. He'd had no idea what would have to happen for either to risk scaling that wall and taking a step beyond it. And apparently he'd keep on having no idea since he couldn't recall anything between falling asleep in his cabin last night and waking up with her this morning. 

He looked at his reflection in his rear view mirror, as if seeing his own face would help organize his thoughts. He hardly recognized himself. His eyes looked exhausted. He hadn't shaved, so stubble atypical for his morning covered his upper lip, chin, and jawline. His face looked slightly drawn, older somehow, something he chalked up to not shaving and his shock. His hair was unaccountably shorter, too. It was long enough to still curl a little on top, but his sides were much shorter. He felt the back of his neck, which was also cut closer than he'd cut it in a long while. That was probably why his face looked so different. Jesus, had she come to his place, knocked him out, cut his hair, dragged him back to her place, slept with him, and then ironed his pants? All while moving his truck? Nothing made sense as he pulled onto Cicely's main drag, parking outside his office. He hopped out of his truck, eager, for once, to encounter Marilyn's reassuirngly silent, taciturn demeanor.

He wasn't disappointed. She hardly looked up from the pilfered copy of his catalog she was leafing through to let him know Shelly was waiting for him in his exam room.

He shuffled into the room trying to force himself to mentally shift into physician mode.

"'Morning, Dr. F!" Shelly's cheerful voice rang out. She was perched on his exam table in a typical brightly colored outfit, tropical fish dangling from each ear. "How's Maggie today?" He jumped at her question. Sure, Cicely was a small and gossipy town, but how could Shelly possibly know already that they'd...

"What, er, do you mean, how is she?" Great save, Joel, he thought to himself sarcastically. There's nothing suspicious about repeating offending questions back to people... 

"Just, how is she doing? I haven't seen her in a few days, that's all. Randi made her something I need to give her next time she comes in..."

Who the hell was that, Randy?

"Okay, well, Shelly, let's just start with you. Why are you here?"

"My ear."

He looked at her blankly.

"You told me to come back once I'd finished those grody pills you gave me so you could check it again. It stopped hurting. And I took my last pill this morning, so here I am!"

She turned her left ear to face him. "I...I need to wash my hands real quick, Shelly, so hold on and I'll take a look." He scrubbed up, trying to focus on what to do next. Ear. Pills. She must have had an ear infection. He grabbed his otoscope and looked at her inner ear. He could tell she'd had an infection that was resolving - there was some residual redness to her inner ear but overall it looked fine. He told her so and sent her on her way.

She took a lollipop from the stash he said he kept for kids but which were almost exclusively eaten by adults, himself included. "Tell Maggie hi for me, okay?" she called over her shoulder as she exited.

"Sure, sure, bye," he said quietly enough he doubted she'd heard him. "Marilyn!" he yelled. She didn't respond. Typical. He sighed and walked to his reception area.

"Marilyn! Do I have any other appointments this morning?"

"11:30. That's it," she said without looking up from the catalog. 

He turned his left hand inward to check his watch - 8:45. Good, he'd have time to...

His mind went blank as he saw it - the gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. What the...

"Hey, hey, Marilyn? Marilyn!" 

The panic in his voice at least prompted her to finally look up at him from her browsing. He was staring in surprise at his own hand, and she quickly lost interest.

"I need to...work on some things. In my office. So I'll... I'll be in there in case anyone comes in, okay? Just...just..."

She'd already gone back to reading. 

"Okay, so..." he left it at that and turned to flee to the safety of his door and four walls. He looked at his hand again, pulling the ring from his finger with some effort. His finger had molded around the shape of it, his skin indented where it had encircled his finger. Was this a wedding ring? His wedding ring?? It wasn't new, this ring. It had small superficial scrapes and dings from wear all over its surface, he could see, holding it up for a closer look. The inside was scraped as well - no, no...it was etched. Engraved. 

He turned it to read what was written - "In your dreams..." What the hell? 

He sat down in his chair, setting the ring in the exact center of the desk, looking at it warily as if it were an undetonated explosive. He looked around his office, its overall sameness the most reassuring sight of his morning so far, other than Marilyn. His unpainted walls, his print of a New Yorker's view of the world behind him, his lab equipment. It was all just where it had been before. That was, at least, some comfort. 

Then he saw his desk calendar. March 19, 1998. A Thursday, like it should be. 1998, though? That was a pretty significant typo. He picked up the calendar - one of those page a day ones his mom gave him each New Year's with Times crossword clues for each day. He paged through the sheets - 1998, 1998, 1998. Had they screwed up the entire calendar? How had he never noticed? 

He set it back down and froze. Next to it was a photo in a shiny, silver frame. It was he and Maggie, together in front of Cicely's chapel, he in a dark suit with a boutanneire attached to its lapel and her in a white dress with a flower in her hair. It was a candid, unposed shot - they were smiling at each other while walking, their hands clasped. She looked beautiful, her hair cropped just above her shoulders, her long dress ethereal and soft looking. She held a small bundle of flowers in her other hand, which trailed down her side as she turned to smile at him. A wedding ring was on his hand, he could see. It all fell together finally in his head. The ring. Shelly's comment. O'Connell-Fleischman scrawled on that flight plan. Waking up there this morning. The inscription. This photo. They were married. Oh God. Which meant that he'd run out this morning and left his own wife that note...

He heard the door leading from the sidewalk into his waiting room open with a bang. He could hear Marilyn, always unflappable, say good morning as someone stomped past. He had a pretty good idea who it was and braced himself for the impending storm. Seconds later, his own office door swung open, Maggie entering in a rage, slamming it shut behind her.

"'Thanks for last night'!?!" She threw a wadded up notecard at him which bounced off of him and came to a rest next to the ring still sitting on his desk. "Maggie?! Joel?!" she shouted their names at him incredulously. "Just when I think I have you figured out, you do something like this!" She gestured to the paper, her eyebrows flying up as she did. "And you've *taken off your ring*?! You are such a child, Fleischman."

"Maggie!" he cut her off. Wrong choice of name, he realized, seeing the anger flash in her eyes. "O'Connell?" He didn't know what to say or do next, so he slipped the ring back on and came around to her side of the desk. She turned away from him in response. 

"O'Connell. Please. Just... let me explain."

"Explain what? Why you got up and ran out this morning like I'm some one night stand? This sudden allergy you've developed to your wedding band?"

"I'm wearing it now, okay? Look, I need to tell you something. Please, just... turn around so I'm not talking to the back of your head."

She turned to face him, her eyes unmistakeably hurt, behind her anger.

"I don't know how to say this to you..."

"What, do you want out?! I can't believe you, Fleischman! You have the emotional maturity of a gerbil! I thought we were long past this crap by now."

"No! No, not out. Look. This is going to sound psychotic, I know, and ... well, maybe it is. I mean, I can't account for how I...or why...or what's going on. Or..."

"If you have a point, Fleischman, please get to it. Quickly."

"Okay. O'Connell? I woke up this morning and had no idea how I'd gotten into your bed."

She'd clearly not expected that to come out of his mouth. Her expression changed from fury to concern and confusion. "What?"

"I can't explain it but...I went to bed alone last night. Alone in my cabin. You weren't there. We weren't... together."

"Your...cabin? What, the one by the lake?"

"Yeah. My cabin. I got in bed there, and I woke up tangled up in bed with you. I have no idea how that happened. This isn't my shirt! And my hair's shorter! Yours is longer! And look. Look."

He reached past her to pick up his desk calendar. "1998? It says it's 1998 on my calendar. O'Connell, but I went to bed in 1992. I swear to God."

"1992?" She reached to touch his face gently, running the backs of her fingers gently along his cheek. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No, no, I am not feeling okay. Are we...married? To each other?"

She smiled a little. "Yeah."

"How long?"

"Summer of '95. Are you playing an elaborate joke on me, or are you serious here? Do you really not remember?"

"I really, truly, genuinely do not remember, O'Connell. I'm sorry. I'm really freaked out by this, okay? That six years would just disappear like that."

She took his hand and pulled him towards his guest chairs where they sat together. "So you went to bed last night in your old place, in 1992, and woke up in our house this morning with me? In 1998?"

"Is it really 1998?"

"It really is."

"Is that really our house?"

"Yup."

"Okay, well, then I swear to you, that is everything I know and exactly all I can remember, yes."

A smile played on her lips. "And you're just realizing something is wrong? And telling me this now? Not before, when you were slowly kissing your way up my inner thigh this morning? It didn't occur to you then to mention that something seemed strange that we just up and decided to do that? It took your mom's Times crossword calendar to make you realize something was different, did it?"

He looked down at his hands. She had a point. "Well, you started things and seemed so enthusiastically fine with...everything at the time. I didn't want to be rude and..."

"Uh huh," she said, sounding amused. "So sex you'll accept without question? Making me coffee, though..."

"You said you loved me just after you asked me to make it! You don't love me - you hate me! I panicked! I thought you were telling me to go."

"I just said coffee. But if it's 6 years ago to you...Yeah, I definitely hated you. Not a lot in terms of intensity, but certainly in terms of frequency..."

"See? Well, that should have been the dead giveaway for me, then, when you said you loved me."

"And not while my legs were wrapped around your back while you giving me this?" She pulled her sweater down to show him the purple mark on her shoulder. She cocked her head to look at him worriedly, fondly. The Maggie he knew never looked at him like that. For long. "No, Fleischman *I* should have realized...I did actually, sort of. It felt like you hadn't seen me in weeks, months. You were so frantic and eager and..."

"Sorry."

"No, no don't be. It was nice...like going back to our early days. I really can't complain about...twice...either, especially for first thing in the morning. You were up to my usual high standards." She grinned at him, and he smiled, embarrassed but happy with himself. He always tried to do his best. 

"I probably should have stopped you, though, O'Connell. You were essentially having sex with a stranger."

"You weren't any stranger than usual. And look, it's not something you-you will even believe, let alone get upset over, I'm sure."

"Then I was the one, sleeping with a stranger. Of course you wouldn't have done that with me. It made no sense..."

"Fleischman, I'll let you in on a little secret about me from '92." She leaned and whispered in his ear, "I wouldn't have minded then, either. I hated you, sure, but I really wanted you. I waited forever for you to make a move."

Joel sat stunned, processing that, "Really?! When did we finally..."

Maggie smirked and sat back up in her chair and continued, "So, it's 1992, huh?"

"Um...yeah, last I was aware, yeah." He didn't want to stop talking about their apparent excellent sex life or that she'd be willing to fall into bed with him in what was supposed to be his present day, but he had to figure out what was going on. "I didn't hit my head, I wasn't drinking last night. O'Connell, I have no idea how I got here. This is all normal to you, though? Being married to me in 1998?"

She squeezed his hand and said in a teasing voice, "As normal as being your wife could ever be, honey. I'm not sure what to do for you here, really. If you think you're a time traveler, that is."

"Can we not phrase it that way? Makes me sound crazy."

"Well, what do you last remember? From 1992?"

"Last I remember I was reading my New England Journal of Medicine in bed at 9:00 and then turning off my light."

She laughed. "You were always a ton of spontaneous, wild fun, Fleischman."

"Oh shut up, O'Connell!" He started before remembering their apparent relationship and his current predicament. "Sorry," he added. 

She smiled. "It's fine. Believe me, marriage hasn't changed us that much. So you went to bed..."

"So I went to bed, in 1992, and that's it. Really. That's all I remember before waking up, realizing you were next to me and I was in your bedroom, not mine, and..." he trailed off, his hand gesturing as he failed to come up with an appropriate euphemism.

She raised an eyebrow in confirmation. "Yes, *and*. So. It would seem to me that you need to go back to sleep."

"What?" 

"See if you wake back up in 1992."

"You think this is just a dream?"

"I have no idea. That's what I'd assume rational, scientific you would say, but you're crazy all of a sudden. Even so, you got here by sleep - surely that's the way back."

"O'Connell, that's a hell of a leap. How is that even going to work? I mean, how do you know for sure it'll..."

"Oh you are not going to second guess my solution to your crazy problem of having accidentally become the plot of a Kurt Vonnegut novel, are you? You're the one who came unstuck in time here! I'm guessing at how to get you restuck. And of course you think I'm wrong. About time travel, even!" She poked him in the chest with a pointed finger as she spoke, "This is how I know I believe it's you from the past. I think I'd forgotten how half-assed and unsophisticated fighting with you used to be. You just disagreed with things because I was the one who said them. Do you have a better solution to your situation?"

"No."

"Okay. Let's go home." 

She pulled Joel out of his chair and out through the door of his office.

"Marilyn, does he have any more patients today?"

"11:30."

"That's it? Great. Is it important, or can they reschedule? I'm taking him back home to bed."

Marilyn smirked. Joel saw it, "Oh not like that, Marilyn, come on. I don't feel well. I'm not going to just skip out on patients for a some midday sexual tryst." Marilyn's eyes rolled, ever so slightly, causing him to look to Maggie.

She had a sheepish look and was shrugging her shoulders. "Wait, wait, we've actually done that before? I've done that? How often? Do you have any idea how immature, irresponsible - unethical that is?" Marilyn smiled to herself as she thumbed through the patient contact list. It was Maggie's turn to roll her eyes.

"I really don't miss you at 29, you know. You were so incredibly uptight! Of course we have! Don't you remember this morning? You think we do *that* like *that* and don't ever sneak home to..."

"O'Connell! Marilyn doesn't want to hear any of this! Honestly, I'm not sure I do either."

Maggie shoved him towards the door, smiling as she decided to further torture and embarrass him. She did actually kind of miss this. "I doubt Marilyn knows you can do that thing with your tongue, but I know she knows we have sex. Trust me, you've cheerfully run out of here with me lots of times 'for lunch' with not a single thought about your patients. I'm sure she knows we were not having a meal, especially all those times we've stood right here and asked her to reschedule everyone with your hands on my ass and my lips on your neck."

Marilyn nodded along as she lifted the handset of the phone to her ear. 

"Come on; we're leaving. Bye, Marilyn," she said over Joel's shoulder. Marilyn waved nonchalantly as she dialed the phone.

"Did you have to do that in front of Marilyn?"

They climbed into her truck, still bickering. "Oh calm down. It's not exactly a secret that we have sex with each other. Hell, we stood in the middle of the Brick the first time we did it, and you told everyone all about it the day it happened."

He blanched. "I'm sure I did no such thing!"

She pulled her truck out and started for home. "Oh believe me, you did. That was back in...when did you say you thought your present day was?"

"March. March 19, 1992."

"Yeah, then it hasn't happened yet."

"I know, O'Connell. I think I'd remember having sex with you and then telling the whole damn town about it." 

"You don't remember marrying me."

"That's different. I don't remember anything else that happened in that, what, 6 year time span either. It hasn't happened."

"Yet."

It was quiet as they drove through town, making their way to her house. Their house. Cicely was the same. Of course, it fiercely resisted change. Passing by the Brick jogged his memory. 

"Oh! Oh, Shelly was in this morning. Told me to tell you hi and that...something about some guy named Randy made something for you."

"Randi's a girl. Their daughter."

"Whose? Shelly and Holling?"

"Yeah. She's very sweet - got Holling wrapped around her finger, too."

"I thought they couldn't...he couldn't..."

"Well they did. Twice. You delivered both of them, actually. Randi and their little boy. Both times upstairs above the bar."

"I did? Huh. I've only delivered that baby you helped with in that class by myself. I mean, I'd observed and assisted on rotations but...wow. What else?"

"What else what?"

"Well, in town? Ed, Maurice, everyone?"

"Ed's a shaman now. Healer. He's still making movies though - that's his true passion. You know that, though. He works at Ruth-Anne's a lot more now. Her health isn't great anymore - she's older... She has lung cancer, too."

He was surprised by the depth of his reaction. Surely not Ruth-Anne? She was so strong, so kind...

"She's still working there 2 days a week though. She's tough and fighting hard. It helps to have a good doctor close who checks in on her a lot." Maggie smiled at him, continuing.

"Oh let's see, what else? Maurice still has lots of plans, big dreams for Cicely, as always. Chris is still on KBHR, of course. Creating art when he can, when he's moved to, you know how he is. Bernard's on KBHR pretty regularly now, too - he and his wife moved up here from Portland a few years ago. She's very nice. Makes incredible desserts. Chris has performed a ton of weddings here in the last few years, too. Not Bernard's but Ron and Erick, and Shelly and Holling..."

"I thought they didn't want to..."

"It's a long story. They did finally. And Maurice and Barbara, of course..."

"The cop?"

"Yeah. And Eve and Adam, but that was a long time ago. Ruth Anne and Walt...oh, Marilyn and Ted..."

"Really?! My Marilyn?"

"Mmmhmm. You were her best man, actually. Maid of honor. However that works. And then us, of course..."

"I still can't believe you and I got married. Stayed married. Really, more the latter than the former...Do we actually get along?" Joel asked. They'd arrived back at Maggie's house. Their house.

She parked her truck. "Us? We have our moments, still, but when didn't we? We're both more mature than we were. Especially you. Yes, we get along pretty well. We're actually quite happy." She turned the ignition off and looked into his eyes. "We're in love with each other. It helps a lot with overlooking each others' shortcomings." She smiled and kissed his cheek before getting out of the cab. "That, and when we do argue, we get to make up. You're really missing out on that part in 1992." Her door shut as he climbed out.

"And I didn't move home? Was it because of you?" He slammed shut the heavy door and followed her up the stairs. 

"Home? Oh, New York? No. No you didn't. But was it because of me? Us? Well, Fleischman..." she paused, considering how to even begin to answer him. How to explain years' worth of incremental steps forward and backward. All they'd gone through together. And apart. She opened her mouth to start to answer him but he stopped her. "Actually don't tell me. I think I know too much already."

"You're probably right." She unlocked the front door and they walked into the living room.

He was quiet 10 seconds before he started up again. "Except do tell me this."

She turned an eyebrow up in response.

"Would you really have slept with me back then?"

"Oh absolutely. I was trying to even way back on that night with Soapy's wine. You're just not good at reading me. You get better, though."

"I was engaged!"

"So you said every 15 minutes when you first got to town. Fleischman, you would have done it in a heartbeat if you'd realized I wanted to. You just didn't know to look. It wasn't just that time, either, that you missed all my signals many, many times. You lacked even the notion that I would have taken you up on it if you'd only made some kind of...showed initiative, had a little courage, taken charge... it's what I was waiting for you to do. Look, nevermind, you'll figure it out. Come lay down. Let's get this all unwound. I need normal you to resurface. No offense."

"Should I bring my coat and shoes? I still need them back in '92." 

"How the hell should I know, Fleischman? I don't think this operates like an airline, where you check bags at the gate and pick your stuff up at your destination. Just lie down however you're comfortable."

He hung his coat on her hook and left his shoes by the door. "Future me probably needs these shoes anyway," he reasoned.

"I can't express to you how delightful it is to hear strict and rational you embracing something so utterly nonsensical as time travel, Fleischman. Warms my heart. My only disappointment is that I'll never be able to talk to you about this and have you believe me...if this works, that is."

They walked to the bedroom. "Handcuffs?" He gestured to the nightstand. "What are you a cop now, too, O'Connell?"

"No..." she said eyeing him.

"Oh...oh! How am I not surprised that you like that kind of...?!"

"Do not try to pin those on me - *I* didn't buy them and they weren't *my* idea, you know..." she looked pointedly at him.

Joel's eyes widened in surprise.

"I will give you that they are fun sometimes. In any event. Regardless. Not the point. Here, lay down."

He laid down on their bed. She tucked a blanket over him, smiled at him, and kissed his forehead. "Bye, honey. Good luck." She left closing the bedroom door behind her. 

He clamped his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep. With time, it came. His next memory was waking, clad again in boxers and a t-shirt, alone and in his own bedroom in his own cabin in what he sure hoped was 1992. A pounding sound echoed through the walls.

He sat up, and looked at his hand. No ring. His finger had stopped bleeding but the cut remained. Surely it had been a dream, though... 

He stood and walked to look at his reflection in his bedroom mirror. His hair was mussed and sticking out in strange curly peaks, but it was longer, like he'd remembered. He hadn't looked bad with shorter hair, but was glad to see the length as corroboration of what he hoped had been a jump backwards in time. He definitely looked younger now. More like himself. He leaned closer to the mirror, eyeing himself critically and touching the corner of his eyes where the subtle wrinkles had been in his image in the rearview mirror before.

"Vain, aren't we, Fleischman?"

"O'Connell?!" She stood in his bedroom doorway, in her short pixie haircut, plaid shirt tied around her waist, holding a hammer, looking at him with an amused, teasing expression.

"Straight to the mirror to preen at your own reflection, first thing in the morning? Are you a parakeet?"

"O'Connell, why are you in my bedroom?"

"Well, it's 10 am, you didn't show up to work, and you have patients, so Marilyn sent me to collect you. Be glad she sent me and not Maurice - he heard about your missed appointments and he's pissed. What temper tantrum prompted today's absence, then? It's not that cold out. It's too early for you to be playing hooky go watch the Mets' opening day."

"I'm a Yankees fan, O'Connell, you should know that by now."

"Whatever. I fixed your step on my way in. It took me hammering the loose nail for 5 whole seconds. I can see why you've been putting off tackling that project for so long. So you're not pouting and not dead? Good. Go to work."

"Sure thing, O'Connell, thanks for your overwhelming concern." 

She turned and left his bedroom. He followed her, walking behind her towards his front door. "Wait. O'Connell?"

"What now?" She had already reached the door but turned to face him, dropping her hand from the doorknob. She gave him that look she had, chin tilted up haughtily, her eyes cocky and challenging, but a smile peeking from the corners of her mouth. He just had to know.

"Just, this." He closed the distance between them in 3 paces, put his palms against the door on either side of her face, captured her lips with his, and pinned her against the door with his body. To his utter shock, rather than knock him across the floor, she'd made a surprised noise and then kissed him back a second after his mouth had met hers. He took one hand from the wall and traced the outline of her jaw with his fingertips, then cupped the back of her head, pulling them still closer together and kissing her more deeply. She put a hand to his temple, fingers idly combing through his hair - her other hand was pressed against his chest between them. They kissed long enough that his mind started to take on a fuzzy, hazy quality. She'd had plenty of time to object if she'd wanted to. He had his answer - she'd told him the truth before. And now he had the rare chance to get the upper hand with her.

He ended their kiss as abruptly as he'd started it, pushing back from her and the door. He took a second to revel in the sight of her, eyes half closed and dazed, her cheeks flushed pink, reddened lips parted and panting a little as she supported herself against his front door. He turned quickly and walked back to his bedroom. "Thanks for fixing my step, O'Connell," he called nonchalantly over his shoulder. "Tell Marilyn I'll be in in a half hour. I've gotta take a shower first."


End file.
